


No More or Less

by days4daisy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extra Treat, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “I’d say you’ve given enough,” Din says.Vanth offers one of his secret smiles. “I don’t know about that,” he replies. “I’m a giving sort of guy.”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 10
Kudos: 100
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	No More or Less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadlikeknives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlikeknives/gifts).



> I hope you have a nice Chocolate Box! :D

“Anything else I can get you before you and the little one head off?” Vanth gives the armor stacked and secured on the back of the Din’s speeder a fond pat.

Fact is, he looks more at ease without it. With the dragon dead and helmet removed, Vanth’s sweat-stained skin shines under twin suns. His movements are freer without the armor. It didn’t fit him quite right, strung too tight on his body.

The armor wasn’t made for him, but Din’s earlier offense has dimmed to a bulb on its last spark. Vanth moved well with it on. He never took the creed, but he swore an oath to his home. After doing battle beside Vanth, Din is willing to say the allegiance is close enough to worthy. Not enough to keep armor gained off Jawas that did not belong to any of them. But worthy in his own way.

Vanth’s question is quiet enough for Din only and given with a sprinkle of suggestion. Insinuation is in Vanth’s nature; he talks like honey ale, flashing Din smiles too warm for the desert heat.

“I’d say you’ve given enough,” Din says. He, too, pats the returned armor.

Vanth offers one of his secret smiles. “I don’t know about that,” he replies. “I’m a giving sort of guy.”

His eyes stray south, and Din’s follow. The kid is gawking at a chunk of krayt meat wrapped up with twine. Covered or not, the kid’s eyes are huge. The child would eat a meal per minute if he had his way.

“Well, if I can’t tempt you, how ‘bout your buddy here?” Vanth crouches down to catch the child’s eyes. “What do you say, kid? We’ll head on back to Mos Pelgo and stick this feast on a spit. Roast it up nice and good for you. How’s that sound?”

How much the kid understands of the common dialect is still a mystery to Din, but one thing’s for certain. When the talk is about food, the child is quick to make his desires known. In this case, the kid coos and tips his head towards Vanth.

“I’d say it’s settled then.” Vanth peeks at Din over his shoulder, a sun in each eye. “One more night, Mando. Let me and my town thank you proper before you ride off.”

The answer should be no. Retrieving the armor was a worthy side quest, but there are no true Mandalorians on Tatooine. The faster they’re back in the Razor Crest, the quicker they can resume their search. And the sooner they locate Din’s people, the closer they’ll be to finding a Jedi.

But his eyes stay trained on Vanth and the little smile on his face. “One more night,” Din agrees, “if you’re doing the cooking.”

The proposal makes Vanth laugh, unbridled and genuine. Something long untouched warms in Din’s chest.

***

True to his word, Vanth cooks up the krayt meat himself on a spit fashioned from the engine of an old speeder bike. For Tatooine, where wood is scarce for most, the makeshift fire is a worthy enough substitute. As twin suns set behind sand dunes on the horizon, bluish white warmth from the engine acts as a fitting bonfire.

Vanth, both surprising and not, has a flare for cooking. He makes a show of drizzling and dashing spices, watching for Din’s reaction as if he expects more than a masked face. It’s the type of act that would seem to betray someone who puts show before substance. But even Din has to admit that the taste lives up to the performance. The meat is moist but not too bloody. The kid gulps his helping down in record time and coos until the marshal laughs and serves him up another round.

Others from town join their circle. The Weequay bartender exchanges spotchka for a helping of krayt. A couple bring root vegetables in a soft broth. Mos Pelgo is alive in a way Din hasn’t seen before now. Merry makers stop in open doors and trade animated stories of the battle with the krayt. Even a group of Tuskens walking the main road doesn’t raise the town’s defenses.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Vanth remarks as he watches the Sand People. He lounges against the side of his converted pod racer. “Never thought I’d see a lot, I guess, before you showed up.”

Vanth steals a look at Din as Din lifts the edge of his helmet for a sip of spotchka. He doesn’t like others watching him while he eats or drinks usually. If at all possible, he chooses not to do so in public, taking his meals alone behind closed doors. But he feels different tonight, free in mind and spirit as Vanth is in body posture. Behind the mask, he can let his gaze follow the stretch of Vanth’s legs all the way up to his lazily knowing smile.

“Your town will be better for it,” Din says.

Vanth makes a thoughtful sound. “I think you’re right about that.”

At Din’s side, the child curls against his hip. It’s instinct by now to cradle the back of his head while he dozes. The kid puffs drowsy breaths against his side.

“I’ve got a bed inside he’s welcome to,” Vanth offers. His smile turns soft at the kid, which Din likes. “I don’t know about you, Mando, but I’m still way too wired to think about sleep tonight.” After a pause, he adds, “The door locks. He’ll be safe. Think we’ll all be good and secure tonight.”

“Tonight and more nights to come,” Din agrees. He can’t argue that a bed will be better for the child than drifting off in the sand. Standing, Din scoops the child into his arms. The kid gives a deep sigh but doesn’t rouse.

“Sure you want to find those people of yours?” Vanth asks, watching them. “Seems like he fits good enough with you.” Din isn’t sure whether to feel offended or glad.

Small favors, Vanth doesn’t wait for a response and waves the way inside. The place is sparse for the most part, bare walls and basic commodities. Practicality wins in this part of Tatooine, revelry left to what remains of the Hutt’s palace. Vanth’s bed is low to the ground and draped in a throw the color of wine. Its softness swishes between Din’s fingers; he peels it back to set the kid inside. The child never stirs save to snuggle deeper into the blanket. His mouth puffs out with every breath, wrinkled eyes relaxing in sleep.

Vanth follows Din out of the bedroom. He presses a code on a data pad to close the door behind them. Before Din can ask, Vanth says, “Star-Alpha-Seven-Beta. It’ll open right up for you. If you decide to duck out on us early, that is.” Another one of his smiles. He gives them freely without making Din earn them. Suspicion usually follows someone like Cobb Vanth around, but Din likes his smiles. They look better than his awe and fear in the face of the krayt dragon. Determination too, not for himself but his people.

Din turns his back in favor of the sparse table along the back wall. It’s made of birchwood, and Din wonders how Vanth got it out here. Another trade with Jawas, this one of a more selfish nature? A bottle of spotchka and a stacked set of four glasses dresses the surface. Din peels two cups off the stack and pours. He isn’t sure why. Spotchka isn’t his drink of choice, and he’s already indulged in too much comfort tonight. Lifted his mask before the speeder-fire. Consumed food and drink in company outside his own.

He pauses at a hand flat on his back. The pressure is faint through the beskar, but he feels it.

“That beat up old armor was the best thing that’s happened to me since the occupation,” Vanth says. “But it was nothing like this. Look at you, polished up all nice even after getting swallowed up in the belly of the beast.”

Din’s response stays a knot in his throat. He doesn’t like the armor of any member of his creed called ‘beat up.’ Or his own mocked as polished, as if the armor of the Mandalore is nothing more than superficial wealth. Din would die for this armor, he would die for his people. But the words stick behind his tongue, frozen by the hand on his back.

“Am I allowed to do this?” Vanth asks. “I’m not going against any code of yours?”

Dismissive again, Din’s way of life reduced down to a mundane series of Do’s and Don'ts. He wills himself to be angry, but his mind refuses to cooperate. “It’s beskar,” Din says. “You’ve worn it yourself.”

“Saved my life,” Vanth agrees, more serious. “Saved my town too.” His fingers stray down the back plate, where the line of Din’s spine stands under the metal. Din looks at him over his shoulder. Vanth looks back, straight into his helmet like he can see clean through it.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Din says. It’s one of few times in recent memory that he’s felt regret for for a selfish desire.

Vanth surprises him by taking his hand. “I’m just some desert womp rat.” Vanth guides Din’s gloved hand to his chest. “On Tatooine, we pride ourselves on taking what we can get.”

Din isn’t sure about the sentiment, he thinks he should feel offended again. But the swell of Vanth’s chest with every breath is a distraction. He moves his hand enough for Vanth’s heartbeat to fill the space between each inhale. Vanth’s eyes stay on him like he’s got x-ray tech in them and can see all the way inside to who and what Din is.

“If I can’t give you what you want, what do you want instead?” Din asks.

Something about the question makes Vanth laugh out loud. “Mando,” he sighs, too fond for someone he’s only known a few days. “I want what you’ll give me. No more or less.”

Warmth floods under cold armor; it’s too hot underneath the beskar for the first time in ages. Din was fine under twin Tatooine suns, but not anymore. He wants what Vanth wants too. Realization smacks him across the face.

Vanth’s body has known days and nights traveling the unforgiving sands of Tatooine. The softest shirt couldn’t hide the work underneath, and Din takes his time knowing Vanth’s efforts. He runs gloved hands down his shoulders and arms, relaxed muscle under his clothes. His chest stands strong under Din’s fingers, his sides giving just a bit to his touch. His back is broad and strong, and Din appreciates the ridges of his spine under his shirt. To reach Vanth’s back, Din slides arms around him. Vanth enters his space without complaint. His body fits close against Din’s armor, and Din’s attention snags on every rustle of fabric against beskar.

Vanth sighs against Din’s helmet when Din finds the small of his back. Din retraces his steps, and a groan turns into a chuckle against his steel. “The metal’s interesting,” he says, and Din feels the jut of his waist. Din’s mouth dries out like Vanth’s desperate gasps in his story of staying alive under Tatooine’s suns.

Vanth’s lips are on the helmet’s flat face. Din imagines the imprint his breaths must leave behind. Hazy wasps of warmth flooding the metal. He draws his hands back long enough to peel his gloves off. “Hell yeah,” Vanth says when he realizes what Din is doing.

It’s been a long time since Din’s bare hands have known the feel of another’s skin. He’s held the child with naked fingers, tucked him into bed or scrubbed him in the Razor Crest’s refresher. But his hands are a stranger to touching someone like Vanth. Someone as strong as he is willing, confident enough to let touch alone judge him.

Vanth is warm and smooth under his fingers. The tautness of his skin is only broken by soft hair lining his chest and stomach. Din peels Vanth’s shirt off. After every other motion, this one is fast and assured. Vanth’s breath pushes out in a single burst. Din wishes he could see it cloud across the beskar. He’s got a sun-soaked body, lined and worn from struggles Din can only wonder about. Vanth has scars - a long line puffed along his side. Another stripe, thin and pink, cast from shoulder to collar. Were he to turn, Din has no doubt he would find other such blemishes on Vanth’s back. The scars are a relief. They live in a universe where a person worth trusting has their share of scratches under the hood.

“You got good hands,” Vanth murmurs close. “Working hands.”

“Not the best kind of work.” Din isn’t sure what makes him say it. He’s already let himself get too familiar.

Vanth looks surprised too; a wry smile follows. “We’ve all done some stuff, Mando,” he says. “You don’t get a kid looking at you the way he does unless you’ve got more good in the tank than bad.”

“And you don’t have a town look at you the way they do,” Din says.

Vanth laughs, warm and quiet, and Din wonders what it would be like to kiss him. He’ll never know, but he wonders all the same. “You got me all sweetened up, my friend.” Vanth takes Din’s hands and guides them to his bare sides. “Now, what are you planning to do with me?”

Din eases Vanth’s pants down to pool on the floor. The easy sculpt of Vanth’s body up top continues below the belt. He has firm, sturdy legs. His cock curves up, eager and blushed, and Din finds his tongue tracing his lower lip.

“Give me a wink,” Vanth says, as confident as ever with his naked body reflected in Din’s armor. He steps out of his pants and departs the room. Din isn’t sure why or where, but he doesn’t worry about either. The gap gives him time to decide. He realizes he doesn’t need it, that his hands are already releasing the fastens of his chest plate.

By the time Vanth gets back, Din is bare from shoulders to waist. He has his old wounds too, lines and faded bruises he hasn’t even let the kid see. Vanth chuckles like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “It’s like stepping on hallowed ground,” he says. In his hand, he’s got a jar of something that looks wet and slick.

Din releases the clasps for his trousers. With Vanth’s eyes on him, he steps out of the last of his clothes. Only his helmet, his oath, remains.

Vanth is slow to step forward, and Din would think Vanth was afraid if not for the dark smoldering in his eyes. “I don’t have to worry about these people of yours, do I?” Vanth teases. “Some secret guild of Mandos coming to strike me down for seeing what lay people ain’t supposed to see?”

Din runs fingers over Vanth’s lips. To shut him up at first, but he likes how his thumb feels crossing Vanth’s mouth. The finger comes away wet, and he knows Vanth has been licking his lips. Vanth smiles under his skin, and his mouth curls in an easy greeting. He licks the tip of Din’s thumb. Din’s body throbs in answer.

Din’s only competition in touching more of Vanth is Vanth’s persistence in having more of him. Vanth’s hands alone aren’t content to roam. He puts his mouth into it too, runs his lips along Din’s collarbone and sucks on the curve of his shoulder. Din leaves pink marks on his back in his exploring. Heat radiates off Vanth’s skin, Din wonders if that’s natural for someone who’s been on Tatooine for so long.

Din grabs the oil from Vanth, but he’s distracted by the mess of it. The oil looks good dripping down Vanth’s abdomen, like water spilling across a clean floor. Vanth lifts his head, and the unsteady press of his lips against the metal makes Din’s mouth move in tandem. He doesn’t have to wonder if Vanth hears his shaking exhale, Vanth’s smile gives it away.

Vanth’s cock feels good in Din’s hand. It’s natural to hold him, cupping oil-wet fingers around the base of him. The curve of Vanth’s shaft fits Din’s palm well, and it’s easy to stroke him between their bodies. Vanth groans at the touch, and Din almost feels the sound in his belly.

It’s a relief when the jar of oil scatters to the floor and Vanth replaces it in his hand with Din himself. It’s been so long since Din has known the touch of another. He reacts too much, filling up Vanth’s hand with a snapped push of his waist. “Hell, I know,” Vanth mumbles against Din’s mask. “It’s a hard life, Mando. It’s real hard.”

But Din can’t imagine things ever being hard for Vanth; not with the smooth, sure rhythm of his body. His cock is ridged and comfortable in his fingers. Din likes how Vanth’s laughing breath rushes out of him. Their bodies press close enough that Vanth’s knuckles scrape Din's thighs on each stroke. Din’s head is light, sensation sparking off his skin. He snags his bottom lip with his teeth, the twinge of pain enough at first to hold the sounds that want to leave him at bay. But it’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to feel in this way. To be touched, yes, but the proximity of skin against his own is enough. The slide of Vanth’s body against his. The swell of Vanth’s breaths.

Vanth’s thumb scrapes under the crown, in the sensitive ridge. Din’s resolve breaks with a moan he doesn't recognize as himself. It sounds too desperate, starving and eager, and Vanth mumbles against his helmet. “Yeah, like that too. Hearing you.” Din has no doubt that’s true, and it pushes his pulse faster.

If it’s at all possible, Vanth fills up more of Din’s space. Din feels every rock of Vanth’s hips, his cock leaves stripes of oil on Din’s stomach. Din slides an arm around his waist, a hand flat on Vanth’s back. Vanth flexes under his touch with every thrust of his hips. It’s the closest Din has been to anyone in years, and the closest he’s been with one outside his creed.

He should feel claustrophobic, or some sense of wrongness. But Vanth doesn’t feel forbidden to Din. He feels warm and willing, and Din wishes he could touch every inch of him at once. He’s close, Vanth’s body pressed against his own. Din’s own movements feel jagged, rough and unpracticed. Vanth’s strokes make him lose focus and fall out of balance. But Din still wants, and he rights himself. Vanth’s eyes flutter open and shut. Din's sensors pick up his elevated temperature.

Vanth squeezes, and everything inside Din goes tense and out of focus. His struggle gasps out, unpracticed and raw. It’s his first orgasm from another in years. His body isn't used to it, heavy and out of sorts. He blinks back to focus with his helmeted face tucked to Vanth’s shoulder. His release is smear across their joined hands.

Joined hands that Vanth has more than happily guided around his own shaft. “Mmm, that’s it, Mando,” Vanth encourages. “Just...yeah, just a little more.”

Din gives it to him. Din would give him anything, save lifting his helmet and showing his dazed face. He realizes that Vanth had every opportunity to peel his helmet off had he chosen to. He also realizes that he had zero concern Vanth would try.

Vanth goes rigid on him when he comes. His body jerks forward, out of his own control, and he groans into the side of Din’s beskar. Din hears him like Vanth’s lips are at his ear. He shivers under the sound, orgasm-messed and warm from the friction of their skin.

Din expects Vanth to pull away from him. It’s a surprise when he stays, catching his breath with Din’s arm locked around him.

“Well now.” Vanth’s voice takes on extra honey in the aftermath. “That was a nice time. Guess a good scrub’s in order?”

“You go,” Din says. He forces himself to step back. Without Vanth’s body on his, he feels the state of his own undress more. His half-hard cock wet, stomach and thighs a mess.

Vanth offers him a quirk of a brow. Even tired out, his eyes have that same shine. “I didn’t say by myself, did I?”

Din watches him through his helmet. Even now, stained and naked, Vanth looks as comfortable in his own skin as anyone Din has ever met. “I still can’t take my helmet off,” he says. Much as his mouth wonders about the taste of Vanth’s sweat-stained skin.

Vanth smiles. “So what? It’s not like you’ll rust, right?”

Din should say no, but Vanth is right. And because he’s right, Din can’t quite drum up the resolve he needs to refuse. He thinks of Vanth’s body wet and open to his touch. He thinks of the hot water and how much better it will feel with someone else’s hands stroking him clean.

When Vanth leads, he follows on instinct. His instincts have gotten him this far in life. Seems like a waste to stop trusting them now.


End file.
